


Let Weary Bygones Rest

by jiokra



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Communication, Competence Kink, Competency, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Dates, First Time, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Magnus Bane, Loyalty, M/M, Making Out, Marking, Mission Fic, Past Infidelity, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Alec Lightwood, Protectiveness, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiokra/pseuds/jiokra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnus and Alec are on their first date at a Downworlder pub when they get an alert from The Institute of a lead on Valentine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pameluke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pameluke/gifts).



Brooklyn slept, yet not how most folk believed it to sleep. Centuries ago, Magnus traipsed along streets in London and was lulled into a state of calm by horse hooves clacking on cobblestone, rainwater splashed beneath metal shoes. Hats had been tipped as men passed, shoulders curled as women bowed—a bustling, quiet energy not apparent on the surface yet bustling all the same. Brooklyn in the twenty-first century had no horse hooves or cobblestone but automobiles and cellphones. Magnus was no luddite, yet he missed the little moments of years gone past.

As he appeared in swirls of purple flames across the street from The Demon’s Eye, a Downworlder pub Alec had chosen for their first date, Magnus heard the horse hooves, felt the repressed emotion akin to tipped hats, curled shoulders. It came from his chest, beneath his ribcage: his palpitating heart. Dare Magnus think it, but even while Brooklyn slept, he was wide awake. 

And his legs refused to move. 

Academics regarded history as a relic of the past, its motifs and causalities a mode of study, a mere treasure trove of analysis and concepts awaiting discovery. Magnus adored this pursuit. He had volunteered himself for oral history interviews, claiming to be the great great grandson of a fictitious someone who’d experienced what he had first hand, but not all histories were meant to be told. Over a century ago, 138 years ago, to be precise, Magnus stood before a luxurious, five star restaurant, anxious and eager to meet his darling Camille for a night out at town, which had been long overdue. For weeks, she’d been distant and refused to explain the cause, yet on the night of a blue moon asked Magnus out on a date. What Magnus had found upon entering the restaurant—her lips trailing kisses along another man’s jaw, her fingers buried in his hair—had stuck with him these past 138 years. 

Magnus closed his eyes, thoughts curling round and round as he fought to keep himself firmly in the present. As he did so, new fears niggled away at him. He had always cared too much in relationships. His desire and love for Camille drove her away. Alec, while a lovely man, appreciated his privacy and space. Only a wink of time would pass before Magnus’s naivety led to history repeating itself. Yet, Magnus considered, if history were destined to repeat itself, should he not walk into the pub and devour whatever morsels of Alec that tonight gave him? 

Magnus frowned and pulled at the lapels of his deep purple cocktail jacket, embossed with black roses and silver lining hemmed on the inside. He focused on the pub across the street and at the thick, wooden doors and vintage sign over its frame, cursive letters inscribed upon it in a tantalizing red paint, spelling out The Demon’s Eye. He fought to remember Alec stepping down from the alter, kissing a man and Downworlder for all of The Clave to see. For a second, the image of that hazel eyed Shadowhunter dazzled Magnus, wiping clean the memories of Camille kissing another man. With a heavy heart, Magnus looked across either side of the street, then stepped over the sidewalk and jaywalked toward the pub. 

Entering the pub, he was struck by the sight of so many Downworlders gathering in one place. Witches huddled together in a tiny table with too many chairs around it, and at the bar were werewolves and Seelies, a pitcher of a bright purple drink shared among them. Magnus sauntered past, smiling crookedly, and his stomach fluttered once he remembered that he witnessed all these peaceful people because Alexander had chosen the location. When Alec chose to disregard his parents’ opinions on dating a warlock—the High Warlock of Brooklyn, at that—he had been sincere in his decision. Magnus knew loyalty by a prospective significant other should not surprise him, yet he could not help but be mystified. 

They agreed that whoever arrived first would wait at the terrace. It was a magnificent piece, made of stone and chiseled by a Seelie artist who had ached to gift each embossment with an elegance only Seelies could provide. Along the French doors leading to the terrace, vines curled along the door frame, fairy lights pinned within the foliage. Magnus twirled his wrist over the knob, opening the door with magic, yet paused as it flew into his palm, keeping the door ajar. 

Alec stood before the stone fence, back turned to the doors. One hand tapped along his thigh, clothed by sleek, pressed black trousers that must have been tailored to perfectly align with his ankles, for his legs were long and went for ages, too unique not to require special attention. His hair was smoothly combed, fringed whisked across the hairline. But Magnus didn’t pause just to admire the view. Alec was talking on his cellphone. 

“What’s wrong with yellow?” said Alec. He then murmured, “Right, my apologies. The former paramour of a Seelie _would_ know the difference between a red and yellow flower.” 

Isabelle Lightwood was on the other line, Magnus presumed. 

“Thanks for the warning.” Alec’s hand flew from his thigh and pressed into his chest. Then he groaned. “For The Institute. You know what I meant.” Alec grumbled, but his next words were spoken softly: “Thanks. Enjoy your night, too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He hung up and pocketed his phone, pulling his trousers taut across his hips, eluding to the diligence and hard work that made his gluteus maximus one of the more firm and delectable of ass muscles that Magnus had the pleasure of being acquainted to these past centuries. Yet Magnus had to admit that he did possess an acute bias on the subject of Alec’s derrière. 

Turning around, Alec smiled absently at the blossoming yellow rose with two large leaves tucked between his thumb and forefinger. Magnus felt guilty over staring, so he made sure the door creaked as he opened it wide and that his shoes clacked as he entered the terrace. Alec jolted, lips parting as he took Magnus in. “Magnus. Uh, hi,” he said, ducking his head and glancing at the rose. “You surprised me.” 

“I had no idea Shadowhunters could be surprised. Aren’t there runes to ward off such an occurrence?” 

Alec smirked. “Is there any reason why I should apply a rune tonight?” 

Magnus stepped across the terrace and peered at the rose. “That is a lovely color.” 

“You like it?” said Alec, voice hilted. “Apparently yellow means friendship, but I just thought the color looked nice. I don’t—You’re—” 

Magnus bent until his nose was over the flower and took in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and moaned. “It’s ravishing. I adore it. Thank you, Alexander,” he said, gazing at Alec beneath hooded eyelids. 

Alec scoffed, smothering a laugh, then reached out and tucked the rose into the breast pocket of Magnus’s cocktail jacket. “It’s all yours,” said Alec, smoothing out the pocket. Magnus’s heartbeat quickened once he realized that this was the first time in a very long time that someone touched him with the intention of doing so more than once—and with a fervor that lusted not only after the flesh beneath the cloth but also the mind beneath the flesh. 

Magnus lurched away, skin prickling. “Shall we get our drinks?” 

Alec smiled. “Sure.” 

Then Alec tossed a curveball Magnus’s way, which really shouldn’t happen to an immortal. He set his hand on the small of Magnus’s back and led him toward the doors, beckoning him to walk through first. Magnus bit his tongue before a quip fired out. Never before had he anticipated that he would be courted the traditional way by a Shadowhunter, but Alec Lightwood had been full of surprises from the start. 

Walking through the pub with Alec at his side assuaged the nerves that had once clouded his perceptions. He had not truly taken in the pub when he first entered, unable to see the ceiling composed of wooden frames, fairy lights curling around the boards and blossoming red gardenias accenting the maroon flecks hidden in the dark wood. The inhabitants of this pub were mixed, couples of all sexes enjoying an evening together, as well as rowdy yet considerately quiet circles of friends sharing pints in cramped tables. Warmth flooded his stomach, a queasy yet pleasant feeling. Again, Magnus remembered that of all the venues in New York, Alec had chosen a Downworlder pub. 

They came a few strides before the bar when Alec’s phone vibrated. Instead of answering it, Alec merely pressed his hand firmly against Magnus and directed him toward the bar. It was such a decisive act that Magnus could not help but mention it. “Aren’t you going to get that?” 

“It’s The Institute. They want me to take care of a mission,” said Alec, sticking a hand into his pocket and silencing the phone. Magnus was so struck by the honesty, and by Alec choosing drinks with him over carrying out a mission, that he could not speak. 

They headed toward the end of the bar, far away enough from the Seelies and werewolves to allow privacy, but not far enough for Magnus to miss the way a certain Seelie admired the view that was Alec in his well-tailored suit and tie. Images of Camille invaded Magnus’s mind’s eye before he could stop it. Clearing his throat, Magnus darted away from Alec and perched his elbow on the bar, creating a buffer between their little corner and the Seelie. At Alec’s furrowed brow, Magnus merely swirled his wrist, but his heart thumped like a frightened, scurrying rabbit. “A fine establishment you chose, Alexander. The whiskey selection has brands I haven’t seen in many years.” 

Alec beamed at the shelved bottles. His phone vibrated again as the bartender approached, and his countenance shuttered. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.” 

“Hi,” said Alec. He leaned toward Magnus, eying the shelves. “See anything you like?” 

Magnus trailed a glance over the rune on Alec’s neck, and, listening to his better judgment, directed his attention toward the shelves. The Demon’s Eye possessed mundane liquors and Downworlder varieties from the nearest and farthest reaches of the globe, a few housing memories of days Magnus had long forgotten, only to remember now. He spotted one whiskey that evoked a hesitant stir within him. Unable to recall what event elicited such a reaction, Magnus figured he ought to give a newer, more pleasant imprint to the well-meaning beverage. “The triple malt, how old is it?” 

“Sixteen years.” 

“We’ll take two doubles.” 

Once the drinks were poured, Magnus watched over the brim of his glass as Alec sniffed his drink, visage hardened in skepticism, and did not look away until Alec’s face scrunched in reflex as the whiskey with its biting kick burned his lips and tongue. Magnus fought the urge to take away his glass, soothing away the burn with a kiss, or trace his finger pad along Alec’s lips, teasing and light. As he toiled over the pros and cons of doing that anyway, Alec’s phone rang again. Magnus took a drink, savoring the burn, then rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you should answer it,” he said. “Don’t think they got the memo. If you need help, I’ll gladly chat with whoever’s calling.” 

Alec glared at him, but a tiny smirk played at the corner of his mouth. Magnus drank to that. Brandishing his phone, Alec flicked his thumb across the screen. “It’s Lydia.” 

Magnus had intended to savor his drink, but now felt like an excellent time to swallow two shots of whiskey without restraint. He despised the silent ultimatum in those four unassuming syllables. “It must be important then. You should answer it,” he said, the bitterness from his voice difficult to mask, no matter how hard Magnus tried. Neither could deny that Alec’s duty toward protecting the mundane world held precedence over all else, long awaited date or not. Besides, knowing Magnus, this night had never been destined to last. 

Alec bit his lip. “You’re sure?” 

“Lydia is a logical woman. She wouldn’t call if it weren’t important.” 

“You’re not telling me the truth,” said Alec. He rejected Lydia’s call and pocketed his phone, then curled his fingers around Magnus’s wrist, his hand chilled from the glass startling Magnus. “Magnus, if there’s—” Alec exhaled. “You can be honest with me.” 

Magnus wanted to take a drink, yet Alec was holding the hand with his whiskey. “Take the call. If there’s danger afoot, it’s better that The Institute’s best Shadowhunter carries out the mission.” 

“I’ll call her back, but the second you’re uncomfortable, tell me.” Alec’s rubbed his thumb over Magnus’s pulse point. “Okay?” 

Magnus quirked an eyebrow and nodded, momentarily forgetting their conversation as Alec’s light touch stole all of Magnus’s immediate attention. Magnus was over three hundred years old. He ought to be more mature than petty insecurity, or being struck silent by chaste handholding. 

Soon enough Alec was calling The Institute, and as he waited for the call to pick up, his hand fell, arm now drawn across Magnus’s back and settling on his waist, coaxing Magnus into his side, fingers drumming rhythmically. 

“Lydia. It’s Alec.” Out of the corner of his eye, Magnus watched that magnificent jaw clench. “You’re right. Okay, I’ll meet you at The Institute. I need my arrows.” Then he hung up and shoved his phone back into his pocket, stealing his whiskey off the counter and grimacing as he fought to swallow down a hearty amount. 

Magnus twirled his hips slightly, savoring this last bit of intimacy before the inevitable happened. “Something come up?” 

Alec fished out his wallet and rifled through it for dollars. “Valentine,” he said—weary. “He was spotted with Jace by—” Alec’s mouth twisted as the bartender accepted their payment. “I should—he—” Magnus gathered whatever innate magnetism he possessed that drew Alec to him in the first place and dialed it up a notch. A second had yet to pass before Alec’s throat bobbed, and Alec averted his gaze. “I—I,” said Alec. “I _weakened_ our parabatai bond. He shouldn’t still just be… out there.” 

The uncertainty and fear brewing in those hazel eyes had Magus’s magic burning to destroy Valentine and kidnap Jace back into The Clave’s oversight. He placed a hand on Alec’s forearm, tracing lines over his sleeve. “It isn’t as strong as before because you needed to protect your sister,” said Magnus gently. 

Alec frowned. “That doesn’t matter. I should be able to find him. It—it’s my fault he’s still gone.” 

Magnus grappled for words and ached for his uncertainty to not bleed into his voice as he spoke. “Now you have me. Warlocks can track just as well, often even better, than bonds.” 

Alec’s gaze whisked up, boring into him. Then it fell, but not far—to Magnus’s lips. Magnus kept looking firmly into those hazel eyes, determined to stay the rational one in this conversation. “You’ll join the mission?” said Alec. 

“This certainly hasn’t turned out to be an _ideal_ first date, but I have always had a thing for the dedicated, woefully married to their jobs type.” Besides, a mission could rid Magnus of the ghosts in this pub and allow him to appreciate the man beside him. Avoidance might not be the healthiest of habits, but it sure was effective. 

Alec grinned, a short lived one. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.” 

Innuendo lurked in that well-meaning sentence, but rather than drawing attention to it, Magnus acknowledged that conjuring a portal to The Institute was a far more productive use of their time. 

* * *

Screens were alit with data and maps by the time they arrived to The Institute’s control room. Stylus in hand, Lydia stood with her shin high black boots shoulder width apart and jotted down notes on a tablet as Isabelle drew connections between the information gathered on the screens. Alec strode past various Shadowhunters, and Magnus hadn’t noticed how fluid and placid Alec had been at The Demon’s Eye until he witnessed Alec’s shoulder blades slide into a firm set, eyebrows drawn together in consternation, mouth no longer curled into the hint of a smile but pressed into a firm line.

Alec joined Lydia in front of the screens, arms crossed over his chest. “What do we know?” 

Lydia exhaled. “Not much. A confirmed sighting of Valentine at a pier and a couple of his Shadowhunters. No clue what they were planning to do—or if they got around to doing it.” She tapped the tablet, pictures reordering on the screen. “No sighting of the Cup.” 

“Or Jace,” added Isabelle. Her thick, black eyeliner drew attention to the venom in her stare as she examined the red circle burned into the neck of a photographed Shadowhunter. 

Magnus trailed behind the trio, perching his hip against the creamy, pale tabletop. From this angle, Magnus had an excellent view of Alec’s broad shoulders and long back, as well as a safe location to observe the inner workings of The Institute. He wondered if his skin would always crawl when he was around Shadowhunters. While Alec and his entourage were a welcome surprise, they did not negate the existence of the countless former Circle members and the people whose best interests were to work for them. It left a bittersweet taste in Magnus’s mouth. Drawing a languid stare toward the screens, Magnus sat quietly, the only movement his shoulders swirling gently. 

Various photographs of the pier occupied the screens. The windows of the dilapidated pavilion and the adjoining ballroom had long been blown out by waves crashing in from hurricanes whose power traversed all the way to New York. The wooden pier been painted a sky blue with orange highlighting the windowpanes, eaves, and snow guards. The orange highlights had left little to the imagination, and so Magnus figured age transforming the orange into a muted burgundy akin to wine tinted bile was actually more of a step up. Magnus remembered this pier during its heyday, when politicians thought it worthy to provide funding for its upkeep and before that particularly determined nor’easter rendered it unsafe for the public. Magnus had spent an afternoon in the tea room in summer of 1905 with an scrawny Irish woman who immigrated alone across the deep blue sea. The tea room sat on the eastern most corner of the pier, sunroofs on the sections that didn’t have a ceiling. The midday sun had strewn in like tinsel, bright like his date’s blonde hair. Seeing it now was a shame. What renovations Magnus might have given that pier had his magic been welcome. 

Remembering that he now stared at a photograph, and that the wonderful images in his mind’s eye were mere memories, Magnus centered himself. Lip curled, his eyes skittered across Valentine. Then he spotted it—an irregularity. He blanched. “No,” he said abruptly, not realizing he’d spoken until he saw Alec flinch. 

Alec spun around, eyebrows drawn. “See something?” 

“To put it simply,” said Magnus, throat bobbing involuntarily. He rose from the table and sauntered to the screens. “Yes.” 

A Shadowhunter stood beside Valentine. For all intents and appearances, the man was nothing but a Shadowhunter, his only remarkable feature the circle burned onto the curve of his neck peeking just above the collar of his ironed black button up. Yet an illusion casted his face with reflected light that dazzled Alec and the others, but it was an amateur display of magic that couldn’t fool Magnus. And with the knowledge required to tackle the complexity of the spell, Magnus doubted the caster could fool him even if they tried. 

Whisking up a hand, Magnus pointed at the screen. “That just there. Do you see it?” At their bewildered silence, Magnus twirled his hand, blue plumes of magic gathering in his palm, and seeped it into the screen. The illusion in the photograph disappeared. Grey tipped auburn horns emerged over the faux Shadowhunter’s forehead, revealing him as the young warlock that he was. “Now,” said Magnus, swallowing quickly to tamper down the quiver in his voice. “Now do you see that?” 

Isabelle—bless her kind, angelic little heart—recoiled. “Valentine is keeping warlocks?” 

“It seems so,” said Magnus. He snapped his hand to his chest, spinning around gracefully, then tried to keep his movements calm as he all but scampered back to the table. 

Alec uncrossed his arms, gesticulating. “Why would he do that? He has the Cup.” 

“This mission was always going to be reconnaissance,” said Lydia. “Now we just have a better idea of what to look for.” 

Isabelle scoffed. “Do your reconnaissance. There’s more than one innocent life at stake.” Her ponytail swished as her chin jutted out. “Do we need more debriefing? Because I suddenly have a bone to chew, and I’d like to get it over with in order to get my just desserts.” 

Alec huffed, covering up a laugh. 

While the usual suspects of Alec’s merry band of Shadowhunters were missing, Magnus pondered if their Clave defying missions had always begun with such nonchalance. Not long ago, Magnus would have never believed in his many centuries of living that he’d stand back and witness Shadowhunters rushing to the aide of warlocks. But that was before he met Alexander Lightwood, and twice in just one year did he defy Magnus’s expectations. A hammer wielded by Alec once again crashed through the molded plaster, reinforced by a foundation of wooden beams and concrete, that guarded Magnus’s blackened heart. 

Alec peered at Lydia, who tapped cream painted nails on her tablet. 

“The warlock is unofficial,” said Lydia. “The Clave thinks this is just reconnaissance.” 

“Not all unofficial missions ought to be.” Alec exhaled, beleaguered. “I would know.” 

She smiled shyly. “Which is why I’ll approve it.” 

Alec beamed at her, but as he turned away, the warmth evaporated as he met Magnus head on, the professional, law-abiding Head of the New York Institute now regarding him. Though, officially he was the former Acting Head, but it wasn’t like Magnus cared much about Idris’s bureaucratic tomfoolery. A hesitant smile teased at the corner of Alec’s mouth. “Help me with my arrows?” 

Magnus pushed away from the table. “Always, Alexander.” 

The team broke away to the weapons room, Isabelle and Lydia priming their seraphs blades while Alec gathered his bow and arrows, which Magnus reinforced with extra protection charms even after Alec ran his stele over them. They worked silently and efficiently, not even their fingertips grazing as they passed arrows back and forth. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Magnus’s lip as magic coursed through his veins and escaped his fingertips, the sensation akin to water a touch too hot scorching bare skin. He kept Alec always in his peripheral vision, and so was not too caught off guard when Alec grabbed his hand, pulling him away from his task. 

Alec looked firmly at him, then flicked a look over his shoulder. Taking the hint, Magnus curled his fingers around Alec’s wrist and coaxed him away from the arrows. They left the weapons room, disappearing into a corridor with dark wooden walls, as were all the corridors in The Institute. Magnus wondered what sounds Alec would utter were Magnus to shove him against that rich cherry wood. A smirk carved across Magnus’s face with a lascivious intent that he hoped was as blatantly outlandish as he intended it to be. Before he could murmur the inquiry loose on his lips, however, Alec shoved him against a wall and shut him up promptly with a kiss. He gripped Magnus’s wrist and pressed the palm against his chest, the other hand curling around Magnus’s waist and settling on his hips. Alec’s heart drummed beneath his palm. 

It was their first kiss in The Institute since the wedding, and Alec stole Magnus’s senses as wholeheartedly as he had during that Clave-shattering kiss. He traced lines with his tongue across Magnus’s lips, and just as Magnus aimed to return the favor, Alec tore away, catching Magnus’s bottom lip between his teeth and gentling pulling it taut as they parted. Magnus surged, but once again Alec evaded him. The hand that had once been on Magnus’s waist moved to cup his jaw, coaxing his head to turn and exposing the length of his neck and throat. 

Alec brushed his lips across Magnus’s pulse, breath tickling his skin, and pressed soft, gentle kisses from his chin to the tip of his earlobes. The second his lips touched the sensitive skin below his ears, Magnus—for all his years and many lovers—groaned, and his hips thrusted into Alec’s. 

That seemed to have jarred Alec, for he pulled away again. Magnus would have banged his head back in frustration, but that would mess up his hair, and Alec’s hand on his jaw kept him still. 

“Is it okay, doing—doing this in the hallway?” said Alec, rough whispers against his ear doing little to smother the sensations building within Magnus. “Anyone could walk in. I didn’t think—I forgot to ask you.” 

Magnus blinked, thrown. “Are you okay with it?” 

Alec sighed, light breath on his skin. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” 

Where had that scared man gone, the man who gladly surrendered his livelihood for the morality of a Clave that peeked between keyholes at all who possessed the loosest of ties to it? _He never made it past the wedding altar_ , Magnus reminded himself. 

“If it weren’t okay,” said Magnus, “I would have mentioned it at your wedding, wouldn’t have I?” 

Alec laughed, his smile the ghost of a kiss against Magnus’s neck. “Right.” 

Then he bit Magnus’s ear, tongue tracing lines over the forgotten corner where the back of his ear met the curve of his head. Magnus bit his lip to hide a moan, far too old to be getting off on kissing of all things. Alec started his journey south, kisses teetered over the edge of gentle and predatory, with how his teeth drew across Magnus’s neck. 

Then-- _damn him_ \--Alec stopped. 

Any exasperation and eagerness Magnus felt for the kissing to recommence vanished once he saw the anguish in Alec’s stunning hazel eyes. 

“What’s troubling you, my dear?” said Magnus. 

Alec’s brows furrowed. “It’s stupid.” 

His stomach dropped. Magnus couldn’t live with Alec not feeling welcome to voice his thoughts, however grave or slight. He remembered how it felt with Camille. “Oh, my dear Alexander. Nothing you say could possibly ever be so.” 

Alec looked at him briefly before averting his gaze, the hand on Magnus’s jaw starting to caress his cheek. “It’s just—it’s just Valentine—You don’t have any—” Alec closed his eyes, mouth in a deep frown. Before Magnus could lure him back into speaking, Alec shook his head. Once again those stunning hazel eyes pierced through Magnus. “I wish I could give you a rune. We don’t know what will— _anything_ could happen in there. If—if Valentine got to you—” Alec cut himself off, jerking to peer down the corridor and glare at the emptiness surrounding them in a fortress of solitude. 

A protection rune. A Shadowhunter wanted to give him a protection rune. Magnus chuckled, tracing the closed button on the collar of Alec’s shirt, right over his throat. “I did not become the High Warlock of Brooklyn without an impressive resume,” said Magnus, the words trailing out slowly as his eyes followed the curves of the massive Z, a line etched across the center, that took up the entirety of Alec’s neck: a deflection rune. Remembering the coaxing vital for persuading Alec to voice his mind, Magnus added, “I am touched and humbled at your offer.” 

Alec smiled, the crease between his eyebrows softening, and for the first time since they left the pub, Magnus witnessed the tension leave Alec’s shoulders. Alec leaned in to kiss him again. Yet this time Magnus was the one who withdrew—and he couldn’t help but bite his lip in a failed attempt to muffle his laughter elicited from the baffled moan Alec gave in response. 

Magnus waited to speak until he could manage to merely smile at Alec. “Not that I disagree with the turn of events, but I do wonder why suddenly we’re stealing kisses at The Institute.” 

“Do I need a reason for wanting to kiss you? We _are_ on a date. I was under the impression people kissed on dates.” 

“But you must admit, the timing is quite sudden,” said Magnus, enamored. Of course, Alec of all people would not consider an impromptu mission a hindrance to a date. 

Alec drew his lip between his teeth, and Magnus watched like a hawk. “I’m worried, I guess,” said Alec. “I can’t give you a rune, but I can give you this.” 

“Pre-battle making out for the hell of it. I like the sound of that. What does post-battle entail?” 

“Let’s just make it through the mission first.”


	2. Chapter 2

Magnus’s portal opened at the decaying pavilion. The grim walls moldy with decrepitude in the photographs were exactly that in person, but the stench had evaded the camera’s lens. Fortunately for The Clave, their air purification vents wouldn’t overheat in the exertion of riding The New York Institute of ghastly aromas as scent could not travel through portals. Unfortunately for the noses of all who exited Magnus’s portal, the air purification vents in the pavilion had long broken down years ago, only to be filled with its own share of mold and rotting wood.

“Gross,” said Isabelle, stepping out of the portal. Magnus hadn’t thought Isabelle could charm him more than she already had, yet she managed to do so in that single syllable. 

“We should stick together,” said Alec, neither covering his mouth nor slowing his inhalations to shallow breaths, his lungs and sinuses made of iron. “I don’t like how quiet it is.” 

Lydia stole her stele out of her jacket and exposed her wrist, burning a rune there. “I agree.” 

“Enhancing your hearing?” Alec grinned, reaching for his stele. “I like the sound of that.” 

Isabelle was already burning a rune onto her thigh. “Not as much as I hate the sound of your attempts at humor, big brother.” 

“Very funny.” As the stele burned his skin, Alec murmured, “Don’t forget to redo your protection runes.” 

Magnus strolled across the perimeter, stepping over murky puddles and damp piles of unknown substances, close enough to the walls for his magic to hum with an even wavelength. Not a single lifeform was detected as of yet, except Magnus sensed an enchantment embedded in the walls, a cloaking spell. The warlock had been sloppy, personal quirks bled out everywhere on the wall, and reversing the cloaking spell would be no trouble at all once Magnus cracked the quirks’ code. 

Alec stalked toward him, hand poised over his arrows and fingertips tracing the crimson fletching. “Find anything?” 

Magnus hummed. “Not yet, but if you shared some of your energy, I might…” Alec smiled, yet in his eyes was a withering look that skirted the tremulous line of encouragement and blatant apathy. Magnus winked. “Perhaps another time?” 

“Perhaps.” 

Magnus patted the air over the wall, careful not to touch the flaking paint. “Our warlock placed a spell over the pier.” 

“Can you get rid of it?” 

“Not until I untie the knots set in place.” _How adorable, Magnus. You really think your abilities are that remarkable?_ Where once stood Alec now lurked Camille, tracing a midnight plume over Magnus’s shoulder blades. With a shake of his head, the intrusive memory was gone, yet a sickness settled in his abdomen. 

Alec peered over his shoulder at Isabelle and Lydia, grimacing. “We don’t have time for that. I’m detecting movement in above floors. Conserve your energy. The runes will have to do for now.” 

Isabelle turned then, the newly seared rune carrying the soundwaves from Alec’s voice across the pavilion at a perfect pitch. She tilted her head toward the stairs and, after Alec’s nod, strode over do it, sword swaying as her arms oscillated. The stairs—if one could call those marrow damp, bent boards stairs—ascended into pitch black nothingness, a mere square hole carved into the ceiling. Perhaps in the pier’s heyday, waiters had crept up those steps with silver platers piled high with sandwich trays and teacups atop tiny ceramic plates. Now it merely begged for innocent Shadowhunters to take their chances at broken spines and necks. Magnus swept past Alec, wrist whisked up. “I don’t think that structure has passed safety measures,” said Magnus, conjuring up a repairing spell. He fired off the spell, an enchantment uttered low in his throat, and soon the staircase was swallowed up in blue smoke. Once the storm cleared, gone were the rotting wooden planks, and in their place rested a rich mahogany, varnish shining as the original had the day it was first set and dried. Golden paint adorned the side panels with intricate lace patterns, like a knitted silk shawl. 

Alec halted beside him, eyes locked on the stairs, throat bobbing. “Whoa,” he whispered, merely the shape of his lips giving clue to the utterance. Magnus went back to admiring his handiwork. The sickness in his abdomen eased, then numbed, and soon Magnus felt nothing at all, as warlocks ought to feel in their abdomens. 

Lydia set her boot on the first step and tested it with her full weight. “This is incredible.” 

Magnus shrugged. 

Isabelle followed Lydia up the stairs, Alec not far behind, retrieving an arrow from his quiver and assuming battle formation. Agony, Magnus thought, was the sensation burning in his chest as he turned his attention away from the firm ass mere inches before his face and focused back to the enchantment cloaking the pier. His short break from examining the pier allowed the knots to become more apparent, and Magnus undid one. A shockwave rolled through the pier, halting the unknowing Shadowhunters. Magnus made to explain the wave, but before he could even open his mouth, a mighty roar sounded in the floor above. 

“He’s got demons, too?” said Isabelle. “What standup guy.” 

“We need to hurry,” said Alec. 

Lydia bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, and not before long each person before Magnus disappeared into the black void above the stairs. Then Magnus heard nothing but the shrill of seraph blades coming alive and the string of Alec’s arrow pulled taut and released. Magnus dashed out of the stairs, magic hot in his palms, and relished in the intoxicating sensation of his cat’s eyes consuming the irises and whites of his mundane disguise. 

The room was close to pitch back, difficiult to navigate save for light provided by seraph blades and sunshine streaming through windows caked with dust. Squinting, Magnus saw the room to be a parlor, or it had been modelled after a parlor to make the room unique to others in the pavilion. Lydia was cornered against a wall, her seraph blade trapped beneath the blade of a Shadowhunter with a blood red circle on his neck. Isabelle had found herself in a similar predicament, with her blade slowly descending to her throat, but then an arrow pierced the back of the Shadowhunter hunched over her, shooting him clear in the heart. Alec was perched on a table, his next arrow aimed toward Lydia’s assailant. Blue flames gathered in Magnus’s palms. His hands twirled, ready to strike the Shadowhunter before he killed one of the few Shadowhunters worth fighting for. 

Faintly, as the sound of it came from a considerable distance, a jaw opened. Haggard, humid air blew from weathered lungs. “ _Magnus… Magnus Bane…_ ” 

Magnus froze, yet the magic still shot out from his palms, soaring just over Lydia’s head and exploding as soon as it touched the wall, ancient wallpaper and plaster raining down. 

Laughter escaped the jaw, a crackling, vibrating snicker that had a convulsion streak through Magnus. The frission could have been equally elicited from crescendos as a ballerina’s elegant leg soared across a grand stage, yet this shiver could only have been instigated by that snicker, the sound emitted by the kind of demon that Valentine had sent loose on the Shadow World during his bloodthirsty mission to rid this realm of warlocks. 

The failed cloaking spell—had the knots been a symptom not of a mere amateur, but of the demon threatening that poor soul? Magnus flexed his hands, the tendons and veins in his arms popping up as he fought to contain his brewing rage. In jerky motions, Magnus blasted a hole into a wall and raced through it, calming his breath so to open his ear up to the slightest shift in volume as he fought to seek out the demon’s laughter. 

The light streaked in from the parlor, debris sifting in the air visible in the angled beams. He sprinted down the hall, running blind save for the meager blue flames in his palms. The corridor was a cavern in broad daylight, only to be navigated by spelunkers with Magnus’s gall and powers. The old air was thick, barely making it past his throat. What little he could breathe in, he hacked right out. Smacking his chest, Magnus plowed on, unwilling and not even thinking once to stop. 

“ _Magnus… Bane…_ ” 

Coughing, Magnus gritted his teeth and ran, but then his toe caught on a floorboard, the ankle of one foot hooking clumsily around the other. He fell, cognition slowing sometime between entering the hallway and tripping. He hadn’t realized what was happening until his knee collided with the floor hard. A faint aroma fragranced the air, so slight that Magnus had yet to detect it until he fought to slow his rapid breaths to a near halt, wary about the aroma. He was soon thankful for those conservative breaths. 

Skullcap. High john root. A liberal use of another herb that Magnus could not identify because the skullcap intensified by the high john root had already begun to dull his mind and weaken his body. Slumber would soon consume him, and quickly if he did not arise. 

“ _I see you…_ ” 

Digging his nails into the floorboards, Magnus dragged himself toward a wall, climbing and shoving his weight against it. His legs refused to move at first, already a dead weight, yet his meager movements got the blood rushing in his veins. Joints creaked, catching up to Magnus’s true age. 

“Magnus!” 

His mind had already escaped him, as he didn’t realize his name had been shouted by Alec until hands hooked under his arms and hoisted him against a warm chest. They fell back into the wall, the structure groaning and shuddering against their combined weight. 

“Magnus,” said Alec, right into his ear. Light stubble scratched Magnus’s neck, yet his skin was too numbed by the herbs to relish in it. “What happened?” 

Magnus basked in Alec’s warmth for a second longer before pushing away. His legs wavered, but the herbs had yet to smother the life out of them. Magnus focused on finding the demon’s laughter. He took a few steps, stumbling, and would have fallen over had Alec not been there to catch him. 

Alec wrapped his arms over Magnus’s chest and kept him close. “The orders were to stick together.” 

Magnus couldn’t chuckle sardonically at that, regardless of his desires to do so. He didn’t have the strength. “Not… accustomed…” 

“To taking orders? I noticed.” 

“A demon… Valentine…” 

As if the creature lied in wait for Magnus to utter his name, the demon began to cackle. 

Alec shifted. “Stay here,” he said. Magnus’s shoulder touched the wall and started sliding down. Before Alec could further attempt settling Magnus there, Magnus grasped Alec’s forearm, stopping him. 

“Not sticking together?” said Magnus. 

“In your condition? That’s Valentine’s demon.” The little light in the hallway glinted in Alec’s eyes. “We both know what he likes his demons to do when warlocks are around.” 

“My magic’s…” A cough tore through him, and Magnus cringed at the timing. “It’s still useful.” 

Alec’s hands adjusted on Magnus. “I could lend you my Shadowhunter energy?” Magnus smiled. Knowing Alec could not see him, he made to reply, yet all he could manage was an eager croak. Alec tightened his hold on Magnus. “Take what you need. Don’t hesitate.” 

They joined hands, focusing on sharing their energies. As Alec’s powers were transfused into him, Magnus was transported back in time to when they last performed this action. That night had been the first night in a long while Magnus felt the tension of time begin to ease. He hadn’t realized how much he missed caring for someone until he’d been mixing drinks for two. And he hadn’t realized how many years had passed since someone had last cared for him until Alec refused magic to clean the sofa. It’d been far longer than the years since Magnus last devoted his attention toward another. And here Alec was again: Caring for him. Magnus could not even begin to contemplate what might have occurred had Alec not followed him down this hallway. 

A floorboard creaked, and Magnus tore away before he took all that he needed from Alec, yet what he acquired would suffice. His mind had cleared. His body felt well enough for minor battle, which, given his dependency on magic, was more than enough. He slid away from Alec, testing his legs, and the waver in his step was not from exhaustion but from Alec’s words: “You all right?” 

Magnus closed his eyes, replaying the words a few times over. Indeed, it’d been a long time since someone considered him dear enough to voice such a humble string of syllables in utter seriousness. “Yes,” said Magnus. “But let’s go.” 

They trekked through the hallway, the only source of light being a ball of blue light in Magnus’s palm and Alec’s ignited seraph blade. A thick film of mildew littered the floor, the stench permeating even the noxious herbs poisoning the corridor. They walked in silence. Were it not for the soft padding of their boots and the shine from Alec’s blade, Magnus would have believed he was alone. Magnus expended his strength toward ignoring the demon’s bated pants and focusing on the surrounding silence. 

Footprints emerged from the shadows, and Alec halted their movements by outstretching a hand, head quirked as his eyes roamed the floor. One pattern of footprints was the sole of a boot, rectangles gathered in the familiar shape of a shoe’s rubber bottom, and the other pattern was the sweeping print of a lame leg dragged across the floor: first the sharp edge of the boot tipped on its side, then the length of it streaked across the floor as its owner attempted to walk. The echo of the _sweep, thud_ pattered down the hallway, curling around the shell of Magnus’s ear. 

The light in the hall shook as Alec gripped his seraph blade tighter, skin pulled taut and white over his knuckles. “Come on.” 

They crept on, the thudding from the footprint’s owner growing louder. As they walked, the single footprint and its streaking companion were replaced by a massive dark spot that went on and on—a body dragging itself along the floorboards. Soon a booted ankle emerged with the perimeter of their light sources. The blue ball in Magnus’s palm grew, and Alec halted them with an outstretched hand as the figure appeared beneath the light in full. On the man’s forehead were two horns, auburn with grey tips. 

Magnus dropped to his knees, the blue ball extinguishing, and drew the warlock over his thighs, cradling his head in his arms. The warlock’s pupils were wide, irises dark and barely visible, and his eyelids were open a crack, the herbs close to consuming him. Tracing the warlock’s forehead with his thumb, Magnus whispered to him, “You have fought well, my friend. We heard your message. I only wish we could have arrived sooner.” 

The warlock tried to swallow, yet broke out in feverish coughs. “Bane? Is that you?” 

Magnus laughed, so glad to hear his voice. “Yes. But don’t trouble yourself with speaking. Relax.” 

The warlock slid his tongue between his front teeth. Other than that, he exhibited no other movement. Magnus massaged his cheek and sang in a hushed voice a tale warlocks told in times of healing. The first line had barely ended before the warlock stiffened in his arms, turning into dead weight, and the whites of his eyes filled to the corners with pure black. 

Magnus’s heartrate spiked. _A demon._

There had never been a trapped warlock here. 

It pounced. The mundane hand transformed into yellow, scaly flesh, red hairs where there had once been a light brown. Digits with talons at the end curled around Magnus’s neck, shoved his head against the floorboards, and constricted his throat. Those endlessly black eyes stared at Magnus, head quirked, a smirk lose on the demon’s lips, revealing rotting teeth and maroon gums. The only good news was that Magnus still heard the cackling and snickering from the other demon, the only demon who posed a true threat. This one was merely a diversion. 

Then came the beautiful sound of Alec’s snatching an arrow and pulling the bow’s string taut. 

The demon whipped its head around, the angle unnatural. “Alexander Lightwood,” it hissed. “Jace Wayland’s parabatai.” 

Alec hesitated. Magnus remembered the last time Alec faced a demon who taunted him and tried to pull unwilling truths out of him. 

“Ig-ignore it,” Magnus croaked. 

“He’s growing closer to Valentine each day thanks to you,” said the demon. 

“Shoot it.” 

Alec tore away from the demon and looked at Magnus, his frightened stare hidden by the string pressed into his cheek. His eyebrows were furrowed, a frown teasing at his mouth. Magnus tried to smile, a tentative, little smile, and something must have done the trick because Alec nodded, turning his gaze back to the demon. The arrow was shot, stabbing the demon through the chest, and the demon shattered into blue shards of light that turned to dust. Magnus watched the display, having never seen one this close before, and then realized his dry cleaning bill was going to skyrocket because of all the demon dust on his dress suit. Magnus jumped up, slapping his suit and trying get most of the demon out of it. 

“Remind me not to bring my Sunday best on a night out with you, Alexander.” 

Alec huffed, stepping over to retrieve his arrow. 

The dust gathered into a cloud, and Magnus only had time to narrow his eyes before a cloud took form; the last remnants of magic afoot culminated in transforming the cloud into the demon's corporeal figure. The demon grabbed the lapels of his cocktail jacket, then flew forward into a wall. Magnus’s entire figure—body, dry cleaning, and all—disappeared into the wall. The last Magnus heard before his hearing was swallowed by harsh winds was Alec’s shouting his name.


	3. Chapter 3

Magnus’s consciousness flickered, firing more sparks than the lightbulbs that flashed to life before combusting, the combined supernatural energies from the demon and Magnus wrecking necromancy and havoc to the pier’s ancient electrical system. The demon flew through walls and floorboards, Magnus’s ankles skirting past toppled furniture. The demon’s powers morphed Magnus’s body into a cloud of energy, the ionic bonds joining his molecules rendered defunct as the demon’s might bent the laws of physics. Magnus watched rooms disappear and reappear between the demon’s hooked knees, held in its grasp like prey scavenged back to a falcon’s nest. The snickers of Valentine’s ultimate bloodhound grew louder at each passing second.

Soon they flew into a room with sunlight flooding through blown out windows, the glass swept away into the sea from erosion and foul weather. Blinded, Magnus slapped a wrist over his face, cat eyes shirking away and his mundane brown eyes returning. The demon dropped him onto an old, dusty upholstered chair, which creaked as Magnus righted himself to prevent the chair from upturning. Sea salt accented the air, frigid drafts circulating it throughout the room. Valentine’s demon was silent but near, far too near, on the other side of the room. Unnerved at being watched, Magnus opened his eyes and squinted against the sun. 

His gut twisted. He was in the tea room. 

Winds fluttered the cloth that had once boarded up the windows. The tables and chairs were originals, but had long since been bleached by the sun. Seagull feathers and dust darkened the floors, the checker board cream and Easter egg blue tiles caked in a film of dirt. Where walls met the floor, trash and litter lied in the crevices. Magnus drew his gaze way from the filth and toward Valentine’s demon, who had taken a humanoid form and occupied Magnus’s old Irish lover’s seat. It had to have been deliberate. Demons always knew the best way to intimidate and manipulate. Magnus crossed his legs and perched twined hands upon his knee, leaning back into his chair and making himself at home. 

Valentine’s demon drew up a shriveled, navy blue finger that glittered in the sunlight and whisked it in the direction of the demon who’d taken Magnus here. “You may leave,” said Valentine’s demon, its ancient, humid breath gifting the tiny tea room with an early summer. “Try not to get yourself killed.” 

The yellow creature grinned at Magnus, then disappeared into a wall. 

And thus Magnus was alone with a nightmare so horrifying, his mind feared conjuring the concept of it even in sleep. Mirth was intermixed with hunger in its bloodshot gaze. Magnus’s curiosity piqued at that. The demon’s eyes ought to be purple. 

The restraints were proverbial, not around his ankles and wrists but in control of his mind and body. Only a single door granted entry into the tea room, positioned cozily between Magnus and the demon. The knob to this side of the tea room long ago fell from unknown cause and had settled beneath the table. The demon rolled it under its scaly foot, three digits with talons as long as Magnus’s hand guarding it. 

“Magnus Bane,” it purred. “Valentine has demanded your services.” 

“I’m a very busy man, you know,” said Magnus. His pulse rate stayed normal out of intense concentration for the demon to not grow privy to the fear coursing through him. “I could give you my number to send Valentine’s way. We can discuss his plans on a phone screen.” 

The demon snapped his fingers, conjuring a tall, thin cup filled with a rosy liquid. “Thirsty?” 

Magnus curled his lip. “After that hash in the hookah bar I went through to get here? I’ll pass.” 

A snicker rolled past the demon’s paper thin lips. “Yet it did suffice before Lightwood stole what is rightfully mine.” 

Magnus swallowed involuntarily, stiffening his limbs to prevent shuddering. 

The demon snapped his fingers once more, and the sunlight dimmed. Glass flew out of the ocean from discarded bottles and fused together like stained glass. The light managing to stream in was stunted, an artificial twilight. The demon snapped again. Rosy smoke poured in from the door’s keyhole, cascading to the floor and pooling at Magnus’s feet. At the first hint of skullcap and high john root, Magnus charmed an invisible gag over his mouth and nose. His kept himself still, yet the demon caught on and snickered. 

“Even the most immortal of beings need to come up for air eventually,” it said. With the snap of its fingers, a scarlet alarm clock appeared over the table beside the cup, round for its body was only a clock face, two silver bells on top. It ticked backwards from twelve, slowly notching down the seconds until the round completed: Ten, then eight, then five, and soon three. 

Magnus’s prior resolve vanished. His lungs burned, lips twisting and throat tightening as he fought futilely against his magicked bounds. His toe tapped the floor and kicked up smoke, herbs swirling skyward. 

The demon quirked its skull. “The average adult male mundane can hold its breath for two minutes. I wonder how long a warlock can? It doesn’t matter really. Either you’ll break, or you’ll pass out, the spell breaking, and you’ll gasp in your sleep. I can extract from your head what I need with you awake or asleep. It’s no matter to me.” The demon rattled its talons over the table. “While we have all our lifetimes to see which happens first, Valentine does not.” 

Somewhere in the middle of the demon’s spiel, Magnus’s mind had wandered. Whether from his impending anoxia or boredom, Magnus didn’t care to find out, but he had noticed a slight hitch in the demon’s plots. Not a sliver of murderous intent lingered in its vile monologue. Besides that, its physicality was another allusion to disguise its true form as a mere memory demon. Magnus could see that now, his weakened mind allowing him to contemplate the implausible. The bloodshot red eyes, its overall chattiness, the stalling—another trap door like the sloppy enchantments at the pavilion. It wanted to be found. Magnus suspected it stalled in the hope that Magnus might stop it, but the fear Valentine incited in the demon kept it at bay. Whatever threats it coughed up were inconsequential. It could do no more than goad Magnus into breathing in the herbs and developing a loose tongue. The skullcap was merely a tranquilizer to knock him out after the third herb, some mind altering, truth extracting venom, did the trick and prevented The Clave from discovering Valentine’s whereabouts. 

The third herb’s scent was unlike any other herb Magnus knew. And he knew all herbs in this realm. Valentine must have played around with parallel universes. Magnus made a mental note to report this to Alec, since he had a habit not to provide aide to The Clave, no matter the urgency. Curious—and, were Magnus honest, a tad honored that Valentine deemed him important enough to keep alive and merely a vessel of knowledge, a breathing library, so to speak—Magnus released the gag and greedily gulped down air, eager to see where the memory demon next took the conversation. The effects were near immediate. Magnus steeled himself. Alec’s energy slowed the effects of the herbs, but it wouldn’t for long. 

“There, now. Was all that fuss necessary?” said the demon. It snapped its fingers. The cup with rosy liquid disappeared from the table, and now sat upon an iron table conjured up beside Magnus. “Smoke isn’t kind to a parched throat. Might you like a refresher?” 

Magnus inhaled roughly through his nose, shaking his head with half a grin. “I’m fine.” 

The demon tapped the table, stalling. It stalled for an eternity, waiting for the herbs to rob Magnus’s wakeful mind of lucidity. Inevitably, the demon received what he sought. 

Magnus’s thoughts dulled, eyelids weighed down, limbs warmed as a fever started to counterattack the effects of the herbs. Head lolling to the side, Magnus was incapable of keeping his mind straight. One second he was back in The Demon’s Eye with Alec, surrounded by vines and fairy lights. Then he stood before Alec at the altar, as Alec wore a white suit and a black bowtie and peered at Magnus wide-eyed with the sacred stele braced over his exposed wrist. Then he was pressed against a coffin as Camille kissed lies into his neck about all the mundanes whose blood she claimed not to have drunk. 

An alarm blared, and Magnus jolted, his foggy brain ripped from its chaotic subconscious. The red alarm clock jumped from leg to leg, the silver bells clanking together at a lightning speed. Magnus sucked in a breath, staring drowsily at the soda pop logo melded into the stained glass window. 

“Your age?” beckoned the demon. 

“I…” Magnus furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t remember.” 

“What’s in your blood?” 

“Demon… Human.” 

“For all this to end, Magnus Bane, I only ask you to surrender a minor piece of information. Think hard. You’re awfully close to Alec Lightwood, correct?” 

“Correct.” 

The demon’s hand settled over its knee. “I wonder if the herbs take into account previous exposures, like a cumulative effect, or if the clock merely starts from the beginning.” It snapped its fingers, the alarm clock ticking back again from twelve. “Let’s test it.” 

An explosive force collided on the other side of the door, rattling the hinges and disturbing the smoke filtering out of the knob, sending the cascading herbs upward. The demon’s hand whipped out, and all at once the door jolted still. Those bloodshot eyes flicked from the door to Magnus. “I guarantee all shall stop if you answer my next question wisely,” said the demon. “Alec Lightwood possesses a parabatai bond with Jace Wayland. Valentine would like to sever it, and he would like for you to be the one to do it.” A monstrous grin snaked across the demon’s visage. “Break the bond. Will do you it?” 

Magnus shot out air more so than spoke. “No.” 

“You’re old and wrinkled enough, aged like fine wine.” 

A thunderous, jarring staccato rocketed through the door, shaking it on its hinges. The racket continued in a steady beat, smoke rising in distorted curls. 

The demon ignored it, attention trained solely on Magnus. It chuckled, a roiling chortle, and closed its eyes as if blinded by the tension in the room and merely reveling in the moment. “It must have hurt, seeing Camille suck the life out of that mundane. The fool’s hand was halfway up her skirt.” 

Magnus ought to shutter it out, yet the words ensnared him. He froze, staring at the beast before him and training all his energy toward listening to those ultimate truths. It took an eternity for the creature to voice what Magnus truly feared. Whichever proved worse, the truth’s existence or Magnus’s fear of it, eluded him, and a century had passed since he fancied the notion of feeling such a way. 

“Romantic liaisons between parabatai bonds are forbidden, but that did not stop Alec Lightwood from falling for Jace Wayland, did it?” Magnus closed his eyes. Yet that proved futile, for now Camille was replaced with Alec, and the mundane with Jace. His heart, dulled by the herbs, still jolted. The demon’s voice invaded his senses with its next words: “Did it stop him or did it not?” 

Magnus’s eyes snapped open. He bit the inside of his cheek. “It didn’t.” 

Lurching forward, the demon’s eyes grew wide, ravenous and searching. “Join Valentine. Break the bond. Then your eternal search for _true love_ can finally reach its—” 

The door burst open, and nary a second had yet to pass before an arrow shot out from the doorway’s black depths, plunging deep into the demon’s chest, and a seraph blade was chucked not long after. It dove into the demon’s forehead, right between the eyes, and soon only shimmering blue dust occupied the table. Alec strode over to the dust and retrieved his arrow and seraph blade. Then he turned, took one look at Magnus, and was kneeling before him. 

Alec looked good. Black suit and tie, hair a bit mussed but still swept elegantly to the side. Dust and sweat colored his face, bringing out the glow in his cheeks. He pressed a hand to Magnus’s cheek, those intoxicating hazel eyes boring into him, mouth twisted. “I’m sorry it took so long to find you. Are you all right?” 

Magnus looked down at Alec’s waist, at the black jacket. Beneath it lay the parabatai rune. Heart hammering against his ribcage, Magnus remembered that Jace was a brother to Alec. The emotions Alec once had for the man that lingered into forbidden territory had long passed, and now mere familial ties bound them. Still, new images taunted him. Images of Camille with her lips at another man’s throat. Of Alec and Jace joining hands and staring into the other’s eyes, souls joined and bonded in ways Magnus could never hope to experience with another in his entire life. 

Magnus smiled, exerting himself to make it take up as much of his face as possible. “Just peachy,” he said, tossing up an eyebrow. “In fact, I was having a little fun with the guy. You could have waited.” 

Alec clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Taking hold of Magnus’s hand, he beckoned him up to a stand and offered his length for Magnus to lean onto. “Can you walk?” 

Magnus’s sea legs wavered, the skullcap taking effect. “The herbs.” 

Alec muttered darkly. “I have an idea. Hold tight.” 

They went toward a window, Alec taking a decent step with his free leg and creeping forward with the one weighed down by Magnus. Alec gripped him tightly around the waist. “Hold on.” 

Then he stabbed the hilt of his seraph blade into the stained glass, pieces of bottles falling into the tea room and out to sea, and cleaned up shards still clinging to the window frame with the blade’s edge. It wasn’t sufficient enough, so Magnus gathered up his strength to conjure a ball of blue flame in his palm. He sent it toward the wall, blasting a hole. 

The explosion sent them stumbling back. The sonic boom deafened Magnus, tinnitus in his ears for more seconds than preferable. Judging by the intensity of Alec’s grimace, he too suffered. Alec crept toward the edge, Magnus limping beside him. Nothing but vociferous waves crashing into wooden poles and reinforcements met them down below. Herbs fell down the precipice and disappeared into mist in the air. Alec’s already firm grip on Magnus intensified. 

“Have I said hold tight yet?” said Alec. 

“Twice.” 

“Right. Well, hold tight.” 

Alec tugged, Magnus followed, and they jumped. 

They dove with their ankles plunging into the frigid waters first. Ordinarily, had Magnus possessed his right mind, he would have instantly swam to shore, but the water was so cold that he would have succumbed to the jostling waves had Alec not clung to him and begun to swim. To keep his head up, he focused on the horizon, a blurry line where endless swaths of ocean met grey clouds bloated with impending rain. Each gasp was a lungful of clean, pure air and salty water. Sputtering, Magnus kicked out his legs, working against the currents, even while the herbs turned his thoughts into static. Arrows bobbed and buoyed behind them as they swam. Magnus had enough left for his gut to wrench and hand to rise, firing out enough sparks of magic to gather up the arrows and send them securely back into Alec’s quiver, charms ensuring they stayed there. 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Alec, hooking an arm securely around Magnus and using his other arm to paddle. “Just don’t go to sleep. Stay with me.” The way Alec swept through the raging waves, Magnus fooled himself briefly into believing the Lightwoods were mermaids in disguise. 

Unbeknownst to Alec, Magnus sent a little magic into the water, enough for the waters to part wherever Alec went. The spell wasn’t strong enough to still the waves or extend the shore, yet it was enough for Alec to paddle toward a wooden beam providing the pier foundation. Alec retrieved his stele, then swung his arm around the wooden beam, just the hand with the stele able to move. The closest place on which to burn a rune was his throat, along the tender skin over his Adam’s apple. Listening to Alec’s shuddered breath and feeling the grip constrict around his waist, Magnus ached to be there for Alec somehow, yet his mind floated as well with his body from the little oxygen in him. Still, Magnus waited to succumb to delirium until the smell of burning flesh left the air and Alec kicked away from the beam with more strength than before. 

* * *

Air forced itself into Magnus’s lungs.

In one second he was in England over a hundred years ago, latching a silver chain around a slender neck, and in the next he spat out a lungful of sea water into Alec’s face. Their noses were touching, those hazel eyes red at the lash line. 

Waves crashed into the sand, fizzling out into nothing as it crept close to them. Birds circled the sky, crying out. Sand stuck to the back of Magnus’s neck. Magnus swallowed down the state of their suits and calmly calculated a new estimate for the dry cleaning bill. At the thought of the amount of washes required to remove the smell of washed up seaweed, Magnus wrinkled his nose and relaxed all his muscles, figuring he’d make it his while and get as much sand as possible into the threadwork. He shook his feet and felt sand find its way under his socks. 

Then Magnus regarded Alec again. It was hard not to given how close they were. Alec was so near his breath warmed Magnus’s chilled cheeks, his hair sweeping over Magnus’s forehead at the slightest breeze. In the late afternoon sunlight, his eyes looked less amber and more a complexing mix of grey and green. The jarring downward angle of those black eyebrows framed Alec’s eyes impeccably, the contrast quite breathtaking from this perspective—yet oddly bittersweet. Magnus recalled the demon’s prophetic analysis on the parabatai bond, and suddenly felt very old. As much as he adored history, reliving it so often made even his bones weary. “I know what Valentine wants,” said Magnus hoarsely. 

Alec frowned. “We can discuss this later. You almost drowned.” 

“It’s important.” Magnus waited until his throat hurt marginally less. “It’s about Jace.” Alec rubbed a hand over Magnus’s belly, nerves firing up wherever he touched. As his hand moved around, Magnus seethed at the cold air exposed to his bare skin, not realizing until then that his shirt was unbuttoned and ripped away from his chest. When Alec didn’t talk, Magnus continued. “Valentine wants to break your parabatai bond. He wanted—” 

“To kidnap you and use your powers against your best interests,” said Alec. “I know. The demon was screaming by the end.” 

They lied on the sands, quiet and examining one another. Whenever Alec’s hand made the rounds and skirted just below Magnus’s navel, he found it difficult to focus on anything else. Remembering what else the demon said, Magnus could not help but remember that they had not embarked on their journey into each other’s lives until Alec’s forbidden love had been coerced into joining Valentine. Magnus cleared his throat. “I understand if you’d rather—” 

“Have this conversation with my parents at The Institute? Yeah, I’d rather do that _later_. Right _now_ I’d like to appreciate the fact that you didn’t just drown to death in my own arms.” His eyes roamed from Magnus from head to toe. Then Alec kissed him, deep and slow. No tongue, little movement, merely a firm press of lips. Breaking away, Alec swallowed, eyebrows drawn together. “Can I come over tonight?” 

“Of course.” 

“Great.” Alec smiled, yet there was no joy in it.


	4. Chapter 4

After a brief examination by a physician at The Institute—a walk in appointment Magnus completed primarily to ease Alec’s nerves before he debriefed his parents on the unapproved mission—Magnus was restored to optimal health. He magicked away the harshest aches and bruises, his outward appearance mirroring that of the interior. His thoughts might benefit from a good night’s sleep, yet mystical potions known as scotch or cognac could fix that up all in due course.

Refusing to be seen by anyone in his damaged suit, he conjured up fresh clothes: a black button-up, the sleeves folded up to his forearms, and a matted black vest with curling silver embroidery. His burgundy slacks were freshly ironed, which was a surprise because Magnus hadn’t recalled leaving the garment in such pristine condition. Magnus waited for Alec in a hallway, hands in his pockets and back against the cool wooden walls. He took a moment to examine his nails, which needed a new polish as Midnight Blue #34 had begun to chip. 

Soon Alec stepped out of his mother’s office, lip drawn between his teeth and gazing vacantly ahead. Magnus stepped away from the wall, and words sprung up before Magnus first thought to speak, since the urge to get rid of Alec’s weathered expression had Magnus working on pure instinct. “We never got to enjoy our drinks,” said Magnus, smiling fondly. 

Alec halted, the only signal that Magnus had taken him by surprise. “No, we didn’t.” 

“My place isn’t as exciting as The Demon’s Eye, but...” 

Now that they weren’t running like mad through a dilapidated pier, Magnus’s heart thudded when he remembered that of all the joints in New York, Alec had chosen a Downworlder pub. Magnus had loved and lost long enough to understand with the clarity of his healthy mind that one did not choose a venue with such care unless they were sincere. Thankful that he’d styled his hair, for Magnus needed the encouragement, he stepped into Alec’s fortress of personal space, swaying. 

Alec’s gaze flicked down, the bob of his throat bouncing. “You look… uh, you seem—” He grimaced, tearing away and shifting a step back. 

“The doctor’s here fixed me right up,” said Magnus. “I feel good as new. Even better, in fact.” To illustrate this, Magnus whisked up his hand and conjured a portal into the wall behind Alec. Turning, Alec examined the portal with an unreadable expression, a little exhale escaping him. 

Magnus sauntered to the portal, brandishing a wrist. “Shall we?” 

Alec straightened, jaw clenched as he recollected himself. Striding to the portal, Alec glanced at Magnus out of the corner of his eye as he vanished into the purple waves. Magnus followed in a stroll, hands tucked behind his back. As Magnus walked into the portal, memories of the loft’s state before he left for the pub assaulted him. He’d been fretting, pacing, so lost in thought he tossed on and off clothes instead of magicking ensembles on. Hastily, he now swirled his wrists, rearranging discarded and misplaced items. 

When he broke through the other side, Alec was leaning against the couch’s backing, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “You realize I saw all of that, right?” said Alec. 

“Did you?” Magnus practically flew to the bar. Alec didn’t follow him, but Magnus felt eyes on his back. “Would you like me to make anything in particular, or shall it be the happy hour special?” 

“Happy hour special sounds good.” 

Magnus settled behind the bar, keenly aware of Alec’s slow, steady gait as he sauntered toward the bar. Magnus ran his fingers over glasses, shakers, measuring cups, mind running away from him as if Alec had let loose a lethal dosage of skullcap. Alec stopped on the other side of the bar, pressing his forearms over the counter and leaning. Magnus’s heart thrummed, and for the life of him, Magnus could not recall recipes for any cocktail with Alec so near and nonchalant. 

Alec hummed. “Maybe I could learn how to make a drink?” 

Magnus tapped his fingers over the mini liquor cabinet beneath the counter. “Have you ever tried a Mai Tai?” he said, for Mai Tais had two kinds of rum, and Magnus needed something strong to quell his nerves. 

“Never.” 

Magnus gathered ingredients, thankful for his muscle memory since his brain took a portal to another dimension as soon as Alec crossed to the other side of the bar and stood beside him, a hair’s length away. Alec smelled wonderful: like shampoo and fresh laundry, an utterly unremarkable scent had it belonged to another. 

“A proper Mai Tai ought to have an aged rum, around seventeen years, but nowadays it’s a challenge to find one. To capture the original intent of the Mai Tai, you have to take two kinds of rum,” said Magnus, settling two bottles on the counter, a full bodied Jamaican dark rum a friend had given Magnus a few years ago and a white rum Magnus bought from a specialty store a week ago. He’d been meaning to try the white. The _clack_ as he tore off the sealed cap soothed his ears better than the opera at Teatro alla Scala. 

“Have you ever thought of keeping a cellar?” Alec traced the neck of the dark rum bottle. “Or just buying alcohol and keeping them to age?” 

As a matter of fact, Magnus had. He did it once with wine, only to forget about the bottles for centuries until they were unearthed and mistaken for cheap balsamic vinegar. Magnus snatched a lime, halved it, and stabbed it with a fork, squeezing out the juice into a measuring cup. “Once or twice,” he said, lip curling as juice splashed on his wrist. “Cactuses have been known to beat the odds.” 

Alec touched Magnus’s bicep, over the folded sleeve, and slid his palm with a firm pressure to Magnus’s wrist, beckoning for Magnus to let him grasp it. Dropping the fork, Magnus watched as Alec brought the wrist to his lips and kissed away the lime juice, his tongue sliding over Magnus’s pulse. The longer Alec lingered, the quicker Magnus felt his control feign, cat eyes threatening to reveal themselves. Then, altogether too soon, Alec broke away, massaging Magnus’s palm with his thumb as he reunited Magnus with the lime. 

Magnus couldn’t resume squeezing limes, brain locked in time to seconds ago. Unfazed, Alec inquired about which glass they ought to use for serving, as if he hadn’t just made Magnus more aware of his wrist than he’d even been in his many centuries of living. For a second, Magnus allowed himself to revel in the feeling of being left breathless. Then he seethed because that was _his_ job. _Alec_ was meant to lose his breath. It was their dynamic. Magnus needed rum, but he also needed to regain control of the situation. 

Whisking up a hand, Magnus drew out a pair of lowball glasses. The fork and lime flew up, stabbing and turning and squeezing juice on their own into the measuring cup. The rum bottles measured their quantities and poured themselves into the tumbler. The other ingredients followed suit. Alec’s breath hitched. Magnus stole a peek at him, and smirked at Alec’s wide-eyed wonder. 

Once the ice crusher busied itself with grinding the ice for serving, an army of cubes popped out of a tray and dove into the tumbler. Magnus then sealed the shaker with a cap, and—for regaining the upper hand—drew an arm around Alec’s back, taking both of Alec’s hands and holding the cocktail shaker together. Alec audibly swallowed. The sight of his Adam’s apple jumping had Magnus pressing further into him. 

“Almost done,” whispered Magnus. They shook it, and the shaker sent them closer together. Alec’s thigh rubbed his length, the pressure a mere tease with all the clothes separating them. Yet it was enough to distract Magnus as he counted the seconds down from when they started to shake the Mai Tai. By a miracle, they hadn’t shaken it too long, the sugar never being granted opportunity to dominate the rum. “Would you like to pour or should I?” 

“Uh—I could—that’d—” Alec forced down the cocktail shaker and slipped out of Magnus’s arms, fingers curling as he escaped. “I don’t know how,” he said, looking hard at the shaker still in Magnus’s hand. Once Magnus noticed, he popped off the cap and traced a finger around the brim of the strainer. Enraptured, Alec worked out a knot in his throat, not rid of it until he coughed lightly into his shoulder. 

Curiosity piqued, Magnus tapped the tumbler and sent sparks toward the crushed ice. At once, the cocktail ingredients danced in the air, falling on their own accord into either glass. For good measure, Magnus charmed a knife to slice lime and cut sprigs of fresh mint, the garnish tucking themselves between the ice and brim of the lowball glasses. Magnus grabbed the drinks and offered one to Alec, who stared blankly at the Mai Tai. Then Alec snatched his glass and gulped down a mouthful in haste, destined to choke and grimace at the alcohol’s prominent strength. Magnus took a sip, hiding his smirk, and swept past Alec toward the windows. He stood with a relaxed gait, admiring the city below. 

The windows were enchanted to be utterly soundproof so to block out New York’s more detestable habit of its nightly racket. Cars honked, tires screeched. Drunken individuals mistook their house keys for karaoke microphones. Yet with his loft’s natural quiet and Alec so near, the city’s tenacity lent a cozy touch to the evening, Magnus thought, for he was tucked away at home with what he held most dear. The noise may not have soothed him as much as his fonder decades, yet the insomniacs of morrow had their charm. 

“The Mai Tai’s delicious,” said Alec, settling beside Magnus. He sipped his drink more conservatively now, but his eager first gulp lent him a head start. Magnus took a hearty drink to even the playing field. 

“After today, I figured we earned it,” said Magnus. 

Alec swallowed his drink roughly, face twisting as the rum burned his throat. “About today,” he said, staring at his Mai Tai. “It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have—It—” Muttering, he shook his head, then drank heartily from his cocktail, only to grimace again. He set his cocktail on the bar and strode over to the couch, pacing circles around it. “Every—everything at the pier. We shouldn’t have accepted the mission.” He pointed authoritatively at nothing in particular. 

Magnus copied his movements, depositing his drink and heading to the couch. Alec halted as soon as Magnus approached, freezing before he began a new loop. Magnus crept toward him, countenance soft and open. Neither said a word, yet Alec’s thoughts were transparent in the slight adjustments in his body language, now that Magnus knew him well enough to read him. 

Magnus understood Alec to be a factual man. The demon had used Alec’s bond with Jace to taunt him. The facts of Jace’s predicament, and what involvement Alec perceived himself to have committed in Jace’s descent into darkness, were very convincing and damnable in a logical mind like Alec’s. As much as it pained Magnus to console Alec on the ties that bound him to Jace, he’d do anything to make Alec happy. He stepped into Alec’s space, taking his hand and smiling when Alec didn’t stop him. He had always loved holding a lover’s hand as he consoled them. Whether he did it for them or himself, Magnus had no clue. Camille had detested it. She called it a flamboyant, depraved degradation that reduced them to nothing more than mindless mundanes. Magnus ran a thumb across Alec’s knuckles, memorizing the dips and dives between digits. 

“We’ll find Jace. It’ll be all right,” said Magnus, neither startling nor stopping when Alec stiffened. “I won’t let Valentine do anything to your bond.” 

Alec shook his head, a laugh pouncing out of his lungs. Magnus dropped his hand in an instant and backed away, but before he got too far, Alec grabbed his hand and tugged him back. Those hazel eyes bored into him, crinkled at the corners as his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Why did—I didn’t—” Alec groaned, then drew Magnus against his chest and cupped his cheek. It all occurred so fluidly that Magnus couldn’t resist. Then Alec kissed him, hand trailing up his back and combing his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Magnus melted, falling against him and deepening the kiss. 

Alec tore away, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t talking about Jace,” he said. “I meant you. The demon. The herbs. I was—I was _right there_. You shouldn’t have—” 

Alec kissed him again—roughly, teeth clacking together, soothed away by a moan arising deep within Alec and the soft press of his tongue along Magnus’s lips. Before Magnus could register the kiss and Alec’s words, Alec left Magnus’s mouth and began kissing his neck. Alec sucked hard, a vampiric kiss that reminded Magnus morbidly of Camille. Magnus waited for teeth—which did occur. Only they did not puncture his skin and draw blood but dragged across his neck, warm breath and gentle kisses in their wake. Magnus’s eyes shuttered, mind lost in confusion and pleasure. 

Alec undid buttons as he whispered into Magnus’s skin. “I was halfway to shore when I realized that you weren’t answering back to me. It wasn’t because you were concentrating on swimming or performing tricks, but because—” He pulled away and pressed his forehead against Magnus’s. “I just have you and Isabelle. My parents aren’t the same since the wedding. I don’t know where Jace is. I told you not to overwork yourself. Why didn’t you listen?” 

Magnus averted his gaze, not accustomed to being under the mercy of the degree of need and affection in Alec’s eyes. He saw the rune burned against Alec’s throat, and for the first time he could read the meaning behind the black lines: Courage. His eyes prickled. Biting back a curse, Magnus crashed into Alec, kissing him hard and hoping to transmit all his gratitude and revere through it. Alec buckled, leaning too much into him, and they stumbled their way around the couch, falling into it. Alec fell first, sitting upright against the backing, and Magnus sat on his lap, knees tucked on either side of Alec’s waist. Hand on Alec’s cheek, Magnus kissed him deeply, groaning as Alec’s hands slipped down his back and tucked beneath his belt, palming him there. They continued until they breathed too raggedly from their noses. 

Magnus sucked in air against Alec’s shoulder, moving to peck light kisses on the crook of his neck. “Don’t apologize. I left when we were supposed to stick together. I broke the rules.” 

“You did,” said Alec, so decisively that Magnus barked out in laughter. Alec jumped in surprise, which only made Magnus laugh more. Soon Alec was shaking his head, a smile teasing at his lips. “Shut up.” And he forced Magnus into doing so by kissing him again. 

Alec maneuvered a hand between their tangled limbs and went back to popping off the buttons from Magnus’s shirt, pausing every now and then to seize a button and roll it between his finger pads, the movement tickling Magnus’s chest, not annoyingly, yet it was slight enough to make Magnus hyperaware of everything. 

“I can just make the shirt disappear, you know,” said Magnus between kisses. 

“I know. But it’s a shame to make all these fine clothes just disappear. You spend so much time choosing them. Someone should recognize that.” 

Magnus opened his eyes at this on reflex. After one look at Alec’s red, swollen lips, Magnus grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged Alec over him. Their limbs tangled as they tried to lay down on couch. Elbows stabbed sensitive spots, curses muttered at the ensuing sharp pain. Their muffled laughter was silenced only by feverish kisses. Alec slipped each sleeve of Magnus’s shirt away when all Magnus wanted was to tear it off. Magnus feared Alec would fold it, but Alec simply draped it over the couch’s backing. Soon Alec sprawled over Magnus, attempting to wrangle the belt off his trousers. 

It occurred to Magnus that the lights were altogether too bright, so he reached out behind his head and shot blue wisps at the light switches. All lamps dimmed, more relaxing to the eyes, as at least his had begun to dilate after being closed for so long. 

Alec slowed, drawing out Magnus’s belt absently, and peered at all the lights. “Nice. What else can you do?” 

Magnus chortled, but then Alec succeeded in ridding him of his belt. Soon his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped, and Alec palmed him through his burgundy silk boxers. Magnus swallowed, biting his lips to stop himself from hissing, and caught Alec’s eye. “Oh, the sky’s the limit, my dear.” 

Alec bent down, kissing him gently and leaning back whenever Magnus tried to deepen it. They went on for the longest time, the pressure on Magnus’s cock waning as Alec kissed him and intensifying as Alec pulled away. Magnus rocked his hips, muttering incessantly as the teasing grew maddening. An idea overcame him then. Smirking against Alec’s lip, he drank in the bewildered moan he got in reply, then sent blue waves over them, and they were transported to the bedroom. 

Alec startled as soon as he back fell onto the dark sheets. “Whoa.” 

Magnus was poised over him, grinning. “Do you like it?” 

Camille hated magic in bed. Magnus had never performed anything magnificent enough to tempt her. 

Alec gazed at Magnus now like he’d pulled the moon from the sky. But he hadn’t replied. Instead, he grabbed Magnus’s shoulder and dragged him down and on top of his chest. By now Alec’s kisses affected Magnus stronger than anything else he’d tried in the last few centuries. His mind grew fuzzy as Alec lazily drew lines along his spine. He ached to further the evening along, but Alec had never answered his question. While kisses were lovely, Magnus wanted to hear the words. 

Magnus broke away, savoring the view of Alec searching for his mouth, eyes still shut. “Was that good?” 

“Mmm, yeah. It was great.” 

“What was?” 

“Everything.” 

Magnus nodded. “While that’s wonderful to hear, could you be more specific?” 

Alec cracked open his eyes, peering at Magnus. “Something’s wrong.” He scratched a line along Magnus’s shoulder blades. 

_Of course, something’s wrong. You’re not Camille._ Yet even that thought was meaningless without verbal confirmation. “The magic,” Magnus whispered, unable to voice the words any louder. 

Alec quirked his head. “Your magic is amazing. Why wouldn’t I like it?” Hoisting himself onto his elbows, he looked down at Magnus’s lips. “I asked you to use more of it just a second ago. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t like it.” 

“You mean that?” 

Alec smiled. “Yes.” 

Magnus crumbled, pushing Alec back onto the bed. “Oh, Alexander.” 

Alec gripped Magnus’s shoulder and shoved, rocketing Magnus onto his back and momentarily knocking the wind out of him. Alec held Magnus’s wrists in one hand and pulled them over his head. Not knowing what to say, Magnus simply lied back and enjoyed the view of Alec poised over him. Blankets pooled away from the pillows and fell to their waists. Smiling crookedly, Alec peered down at Magnus, gaze drifting back and forth. 

“Hey,” said Alec. “We never finished those drinks.” 

Magnus grinned. “It seems we keep getting interrupted.” 

“Yeah.” Alec nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah, we do.” 

Listening to the bed creak beneath them, Magnus waited for Alec to bite and suck hickeys onto his neck, or to continue removing his pants. Alec merely smiled, gazing down at Magnus, as if lost in thought. Groaning, Magnus grabbed fistfuls of Alec’s hair, dragging him down, and kissed him.


	5. Epilogue

Magnus sipped his blond IPA, the hops refreshing after a ruckus earlier that day instigated by brawling demons who fancied the notion of using a supermarket vegetable section as their own personal wrestling ring. He had nearly pulled a muscle while simultaneously battling the demons and veiling the smashed fruit stands from the mundanes, as it would have been difficult to explain away invisible explosive forces to those who lacked the Sight.

On the other side of a booth, Alec sipped his beer, thumbing through the settings for his phone. “The Institute won’t like this.” 

“Silence everything,” said Magnus, eying the empty porter and Belgian beer bottles lining a shelf over the bar. “It’s a pub crawl, after all. At a certain point, we’re avoiding them to keep your professional reputation untarnished.” 

After The Demon’s Eye, they’d discussed ground rules for dates. Downworlder and Shadowhunters bars were not an option. It posed too many risks for chance encounters with demons. If The Institute called for a mission—which they might—Alec would never find out, as his phone was on silent, except for the alarm alerting them of when to leave for the next pub. Silencing was important, as Alec’s presence in a bar and his affiliation with the Shadow World caused an imbalance in the energies between The Institute and himself. The concept of an imbalance was preposterous, of course, but it came to them hours into the night ages ago when they couldn’t quit talking. As all conversations in the dead of night, that one had held insurmountable truths. 

Alec switched off his phone, frowning, and pocketed it. He took a greedy sip from his pitch black beer, his palm not visible between the glass. Magnus admired him as he swallowed, yet hugged his blonde IPA close. Alec’s taste in beer, particularly craft, enthralled Magnus. In the same vein, it terrified him. 

Alec raised his glass in salute as he swallowed. “Ten o’clock. A Stealth rune tattoo.” 

“A Stealth rune?” Magnus sipped his hoppy beer. “Do they even look twenty-one?” 

Alec rolled his eyes, yet he glanced quickly across the room. “Maybe they saw Clary’s modern art and thought it looked cool.” 

Magnus hummed, frowning. “One day my biscuits will get along.” 

Alec set down his glass, leaning across the table, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Did you just call me—crap.” 

“I called you _biscuit_ —” 

Alec ripped up his sleeve and brandished his stele, burning under the table an invisibility rune to his skin. “No, I mean, Clary’s fanboy is a demon. He just—” His alarm went off for the next pub just as a bloodcurdling scream rang through the pub. Alec chewed on his lip. “I didn’t bring my arrows. Or my seraph blade.” Alec turned a hesitant gaze at Magnus. 

Magnus smirked. “I always did admire your valiance in the face of becoming the distraction.” 

Alec grumbled, swigging back the last of his beer. “I hate being the distraction,” he said, rising from the booth. 

Magnus took a few last sips of his IPA, pondering whether to finish it before joining Alec or magicking the glass to follow him throughout the pub in order to return to it after vanquishing the demon. Then Magnus smiled, as the answer always entailed magic. Whisking up his wrist, a silver platter appeared beside Alec, the blonde IPA sitting upon it. Alec looked at the beer wistfully. 

Magnus patted his shoulder as he strolled past. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said, cat eyes adorning his visage. “Next round’s on me.”


End file.
